


Bookends

by ProseApothecary



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: (Mildly Peeved Acquaintances to Lovers), Alternate Universe, Bill and Stan are the chill introvert version of Enemies to Lovers, Bill's first movie adaptation, Fluff and a bit of angst but less than canon, For instance Georgie is alive (but only mentioned), Fun fact: If you type in 'Georgie is alive', M/M, Poor kid is not doing well on ao3, Richie and Eddie are Friends to Lovers, Since Bill is an author insert does that mean I wrote slash about Stephen King? Discuss, Slow Burn, The first tag to appear is 'Everyone is Alive Except Georgie Denbrough', no pennywise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23185609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProseApothecary/pseuds/ProseApothecary
Summary: Bill's not sure why he's putting more trust in the annoyed storyboard artist who dresses like a 1920s toddler than he is in the director or the writers. But something about Stan’s level gaze, the Order that seems to exude from his pores, it calms the chaos in his head.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough & Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris, Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 57
Kudos: 156





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few content warnings for the whole work: There will be drinking. Bill and Stan both have control issues and it manifests as OCD for Stan. There's no in-canon violence but Bill is still a horror writer so gore will be discussed. As with every fic involving Richie, there will be swearing and sex jokes.

The glass walls leave a clear view of Meeting Room C. The man sitting at the desk inside is turned away from him, but Bill can see a curly head of hair, and long fingers sharpening pencils before laying each of them in a perfectly even line to the right of him.

There’s something a little mesmerising about it, and Bill has to stop himself from watching, giving the glass door a little knock before entering.

“Mr Denbrough?” the man says, standing up and holding out a hand to shake. His olive eyes are half-obscured by the lick of curls over his forehead. He’s wearing a short-sleeved green plaid shirt, buttoned up to the very top. _Not very LA._

“Just Bill.”

“I’m Stan. Harry said you wanted to get a look at the storyboarding process? Just to make sure all the details translate?”

“Right,” says Bill. “I also thought. While I’m here. Maybe you could have a go at storyboarding the alternate ending. I just think that when Harry sees it on _paper-_ ”

“Alternate ending,” Stan echoes, sounding less and less enthused. “You mean the original one? That focus groups hated? I thought you agreed-”

“I did,” Bill says. Sensing he might have to come on a little stronger in order to make this happen, he adds. “I just want to give it one more chance. Please, Stan. You don’t know what it’s like to not be able to make the art you want to make.”

Stan raises an eyebrow. “I paid for college through commissions. Believe me, drawings of pregnant Sonic were not the art I wanted to make.”

Bill blinks. “…Ok. So. Maybe you _do_ know what it’s like to have your vision compromised, but this ending is like… _my_ pregnant Sonic.”

Stan winces like he’s having war flashbacks. “They are not even remotely comparable, trust me. Look, I get that this is like, your baby-”

“My Sonic baby?” Bill asks, aiming to lighten the tone.

He knows he’s failed from the withering look Stan sends him.

“-and you’re having trouble letting go, but the new ending is _better_. I’m not going to ignore my boss and give him a set of pages that he didn’t even remotely ask for. Not all of us have as much freedom with this as you do. Some of the people here are just trying to do their jobs. Support their families.”

“…Right,” Bill says, feeling like he’s very much destroyed his chance at getting along with the crew. “…Do you really think the new ending is good?”

Stan nods. “Joyful doesn’t mean bad.”

Bill's not sure why he's putting more trust in the annoyed storyboard artist who dresses like a 1920s toddler than he is in the director or the writers. But something about Stan’s level gaze, the Order that seems to exude from his pores, it calms the chaos in his head.

“Ok,” he says. “So I’ll…let you do your job then.”

“Thanks,” says Stan. Not harshly, but not gently either. He sits back down and picks up his sharpener.

And Bill backs out.


	2. Chapter 2

Bill is very glad that Stan the Storyboarder doesn’t cross paths with him again that week.

Not that anyone else on the crew is particularly enamoured with him.

He’s given in to going with the director-led ending, but not within a timeframe that anyone would describe as ‘gracious’, and not with any kind of enthusiasm.

The stutter he thought he had lost comes back when he’s feeling worried, or frustrated, which is often, lately. It turns out the writers’ room doesn’t take too kindly to any idea that takes 5 minutes to come out.

And it turns out that you shouldn’t vent to the caterer, because he might be married to the director, and there’s no number of compliments about his beignets that can make up for calling his wife a hack.

He should probably take a step back.

Keeping his distance only works for a week.

It’s a Sunday morning, and Bill is heading to the coffee shop to write and/or procrastinate.

He slows as he strolls, seeing a familiar face, frozen on the steps of their friendly neighbourhood geek store. Stan’s holding a massive puzzle box, looking vaguely disturbed to see him there.

“Hey!” Bill says, waving at him in an attempt at affability. “That for your kids?”

Stan stares at him for a good 3 seconds before saying, flatly, “I don’t have children.”

“Oh. Right. I just assumed, because-” He coughs. “Because of the lecture? About people just trying to do their jobs and support their families? Not being liable to the whims of a tyrannical author?”

The edge of Stan’s mouth quirks up, which Bill is going to take as a success.

“I don’t think those were my exact words.”

“Oh,” Bill says, smiling back, “my mistake.”

“I’m pretty sure I said ‘despotic’”.

Bill snorts, and Stan’s smile grows.

“Well. Sorry about the despotism. I’m just in a bit of a writer’s rut at the moment. And I think obsessing over the ending of something I’d _already_ written was helping me feel productive.”

“You should try puzzles,” Stan says, with so much sincerity that Bill has to bite down on a laugh.

He points to the puzzle box. “3000 pieces? Please don’t tell me it’s a blue sky, or a still ocean.”

Stan twists it around so Bill can see the picture on the front, a Kingfisher in scrub. The thought _I’ve never actually seen someone over 12 and under 70 do a puzzle_ might be showing on Bill’s face, because Stan shrugs and says, “They're calming.”

“…Puzzles?” Bill asks. “Or birds?”

“Uh. Both?”

“You have any at home? Birds, I mean. Not puzzles.”

Stan huffs a little laugh and says, “I wouldn’t make anything live with me.” He ducks his head and motions down the street. “You going this way?”

“Yeah. Figured I’d try to write at Cassidy’s.”

Stan’s already started walking. Bill takes that as an invitation to follow alongside him.

“Writing in a coffeeshop? Bit of a stereotype, isn’t it?”

“Not all of us can be eclectic, bird-loving, puzzle-collecting storyboarders, Stan.”

Stan flashes a grin at him, quick enough that Bill can convince himself he hallucinated it.

There’s a brief silence. _Small talk. You know small talk, right?_

“So…what’s your favourite bird?”

_No, you do not._

“You can’t ask me that,” Stan says. “That’s like. That’s like me asking you what your favourite book is. Or favourite author.”

“Stepford Wives,” says B immediately. “And Kafka.”

Stan blinks at him. “…For some reason, I was expecting more Palahniuk.”

“I seem like a run a fight club in my spare time?”

“Yeah, that might be it.”

“I chose. So, your turn.”

Stan opens his mouth to protest, then sighs and acquiesces. “A roc.”

It’s so distant from the kind of answer Bill was expecting that he can’t stop laughing for a good 10 seconds.

“Like, the village-destroying, child-abducting kind?”

“I guess,” Stan says, and Bill has about 300 follow-up questions, but they’ve already reached Cassidy’s.

“Maybe I’ll see you in the neighbourhood,” Stan says, and Bill could swear he’s wearing a half-smile, like he might actually be pleased at the prospect.

“Yeah,” Bill says, smiling back. “See you round.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone was reading this just for the Reddie: Firstly, you're very patient. Secondly, your time has come.
> 
> Consistent chapter lengths are not my forte. This one is looong.

“See you round,” Bill is realising, only works if you’re actually around.

He has technically seen Stan since (back of his head, distant conference room, as Bill was being walked and talked to by the director). But that’s about it. He’s relatively new in town, and dealing with writer’s block by spending long hours staring at a screen, and not really going out.

At least until he gets an invitation to Richie Tozier’s party.

He has no idea why. The invite says something about discussing collaborative opportunities, but he can’t imagine what the benefits would be for a stand-up comedian with significantly more social clout than him.

He tries to stuff down the paranoid 13 year-old voice that tells him it’s a joke. He doesn’t really want to go either way, but he hears his agent chanting _networknetworknetwork_ in his ear, and he thinks maybe he should give it a shot.

He changes into his party clothes.

_Ok, ok, he cuffs his sleeves._

The reception area of Richie’s apartment building is empty, all sterile blue walls and total silence. It looks like a spa, post-apocalypse.

When he makes his way up to Richie’s apartment, the contrast is palpable, even from outside. He’s pretty sure the music he can hear thrumming through the walls is a Kidzbop cover of _Thank U, Next_. He goes to knock on the door and is slightly alarmed to find it’s already slightly open.

 _I could be watching reruns of X-Files right now_ , he tries not to think as he tiptoes through beer bottles trying and failing to find a spare seat or friendly face.

15 minutes pass before Richie comes up to him, almost spilling beer from a red solo cup onto his shoes.

“Hey,” he says. “Do I know you?”

The correct answer, of course, is no, but that also seems like the type of answer that could result in security guards hauling him outside. Even if Richie seems amiable enough right now.

“Uh. I’m Bill?” he attempts, hoping to jog his memory.

“Oh!” Richie claps his shoulder. “Bill Denbrough. My agent wanted me to get in touch with you. Thinks we could do a horror-comedy. I just need you to confirm that it’s a terrible idea so she’ll get off my back.”

“Oh.” Bill says. “Uh-”

“You’re right,” Richie says. “Terrible idea. Sorry for wasting your time. But stick around.” He clearly gets some kind of read on what Bill’s priorities, because he adds, “Snacks are in the kitchen.”

And with another clap on his shoulder, he’s gone.

 _Well._ Bill _is_ hungry.

He heads to the kitchen, stopping stock-still in the doorway when he sees a familiar head of curls looking down at his phone.

“…Stan?... _You’re_ friends with Richie Tozier?”

When Stan looks up, it’s with surprise, and what Bill is just going to hope is the edge of a smile.

“I know,” he says dryly. “Most people are shocked that I’m even aware comedy exists.”

Bill lets out a startled laugh. “No, that’s not-”

_I just thought you would hate his dick jokes and the concept of ranting about your personal life onstage and celebrities in general and drunk people, and parties, and, if I’m being honest, any gathering of more than 6 people._

He reconsiders listing presumptions as a small talk tactic, and, instead, says, “I think you’re better at it than Richie.”

Stan smiles. “Barely a compliment, but I’ll take it. What about you? How do you know him?”

“Uh, I don’t? He invited me to ask if I wanted to collaborate with him, but I guess he actually wanted me to give him an excuse not to collaborate with him?”

“Christ,” Stan says. “Sorry you had to come here for that. He could’ve just been a dick to you over the phone, saved everyone some time.”

Bill shrugs. “I don’t really mind,” he says, and is surprised to find out it’s true.

“Still,” Stan says, eyes lighting up. “You wanna hide his Teen Choice Award?”

_Hijinks with Stan?_

“Absolutely.”

“Ok,” Bill says, as Stan drags it out from under Richie’s bed. “You never told me it was a surfboard. And under the bed? Are we sure he’s even gonna notice it’s gone?”

“We’ll just have to be creative with the hiding places,” Stan says. “And yes. It’s one of those things he pretends to be embarrassed about, but he’s secretly pleased, trust me.”

“Help me with this,” Stan says. He’s a lot shorter than the surfboard, and Bill has to suppress a grin.

Bill grabs one end, and they make it out of the room. Someone passes them in the corridor, and Stan goes still, eyes darting nervously, like _that’s_ going to make them invisible. _God._ Bill really likes him.

Stan takes them to the laundry, unceremoniously dumping the surfboard in a laundry hamper. Half of it sticks out the top

“Perfect,” Bill pronounces dryly.

“He’s not gonna go in here for at least two weeks,” Stan says. “So yeah, it really is.”

Bill grins at him. “Hey. You wanna go back to the party?”

Stan sits up on the counter. “I think I might stay here. Quieter. You can, though.”

Bill joins him. “I’ll stay. As long as you don’t mind? I don’t want to be the guy who exhausts introverts.”

A smile spreads across Stan’s face. “Oh no, that’s definitely Richie. Or Eddie. You’re good.”

Bill can feel the ripple in his chest at the words. It’s truly annoying how much better it feels to be tolerated by Stan than liked by anyone else.

“Wait. Who’s Eddie?”

“How much time have you got?”

As it turns out, he has nothing but time. They discuss friends, and work, and favourite board games, and which news presenter best balances charm and professionalism, and whether the _Times_ crossword has gone downhill, and how truly old both of them are at heart.

“As an author,” Stan says, somewhere around the half-hour mark, “you probably hate it when people come up to you with book ideas, right?”

“Yeah,” Bill says. “It can get a little old.”

“Good news,” Stan says. “Mine’s a _movie_ proposal.”

Bill snorts. “Oh, perfect.”

“Right, so. We enter on a sleepy town. A socialite buys lovebirds for her would-be lover, but, surprise, surprise, they go on the attack. Soon _all_ the birds start joining in. And the town becomes much less sleepy.”

Bill bites down on a smile. He thinks Stan’s drinks are hitting him now. “Mm. Are you describing _The Birds_ to me right now?”

“No. That was anti-bird propaganda. This would be a very pro-bird film. Also, _we_ wouldn’t throw live birds at the actresses.”

“Ok, you had me until you said you didn’t want to traumatise actors. That’s why I got into horror in the first place.”

“That’s fair,” Stan says. “Sorry for wasting your time, Mr Denbrough.”

“Oh, you should be,” Bill says. “I could be doing very important business right now. Like eating bagels and listening to clips from NPR.”

Stan gives him an odd little smile.

“What?” Bill prompts.

“Nothing,” Stan says. “Just…I’ve definitely spent a Saturday night doing that.”

“Oh my God. I’m so relieved someone at this party is as uncool as me.”

“Have you met my friends? Everyone at this party is as uncool as you.”

Bill pauses. “I would _love_ to meet your friends.”

“…I mean, I don’t think I was offering _that_ …”

“It was implied,” Bill says, and gives his most charming smile.

Stan winces like he’s just taken a shot of tequila. “Fine. Just remember you asked for this.”

Stan and Bill have to step over a Roomba carrying a cocktail platter in order to get to the living room. The only people left are Richie, and a shorter brunette, sitting on the back of the couch.

“Only the people who brought the wine get to drink the wine,” the brunette says, taking a swig from a bottle. “That’s how it works in civilised society.”

Richie pouts. “But it’s _my_ party. Besides, I thought you were buying for both of us.”

“…Why would you think that? I can’t help it if you’re delusional-” He pauses as his eyes flick to Stan and Bill.

Bill waves awkwardly, then immediately resents himself. “Hi.”

“Bill, this is Eddie. You already know Richie, as much as you may wish you don’t,” Stan says.

Richie smiles and raises an eyebrow at the two of them. Stan raises an eyebrow right back, and they seem to have some kind of expressive eyebrow conversation that Bill cannot even remotely understand.

Meanwhile, Eddie says, “I know you. Why do I know you?”

Richie leans over and whispers something in Eddie’s ear, and his eyes widen a little. “Oh. Bill Denbrough.” He looks at Stan, and his face does exactly what Richie’s was doing a minute ago.

The 4 of them fall into an awkward silence, Bill suddenly unable to focus on anything except trying to figure out what was said. Luckily Richie breaks the ice. “Settle an argument for us, Staniel. Are dragons birds?”

Stan sighs. “That didn’t sound like what you were arguing about.”

“Obviously dragons aren’t birds, dipshit.” Eddie says. “They don’t have feathers.”

“But neither do penguins,” says Richie.

“Penguins have feathers,” Eddie says, then, with less certainty, “Penguins have feathers, right?”

“Penguins have feathers,” Stan confirms.

“So in Stan’s opinion, penguins have feathers,” Richie says.

Stan levels his gaze. “I know what you’re doing. And it’s not going to work on me.”

“Hey,” Richie says, holding up his hands in surrender. “If you say penguins have feathers, I believe you.”

“…Fur.” Eddie says. “I think penguins have fur.”

“Are you happy?” Stan asks Richie. “You’re making Eddie dumber.”

“He’s questioning authority,” Richie says. “Bringing down Big Bird.”

“People like you are why flat earthers exist.”

“…Do kiwi birds have feathers?” Bill asks, genuinely curious.

Stan turns his head slowly, shooting him a look of utter betrayal, eyes narrowed, mouth a plateau. Richie can’t stop laughing.

Eddie gets out his phone and starts frantically googling, before announcing, disappointed, that they all have feathers.

“If you trust the internet,” Richie says. “Which I don’t. You know, just the other day I read this article online that claimed men who watch birds are just expressing their need to hunt in the modern world.” He lowers his voice to a stage whisper. “You know. Compensating for something.”

“Huh,” says Eddie, while Stan’s rolling his eyes. “Like men who do stand-up about their dicks?”

Richie, grinning, turns his full attention to Eddie. “I don’t need to compensate for anything. You know, if you want proof-”

Stan makes a strangled sound. “We have _company_ , so. Can you pretend to be normal for an evening?”

“Don’t mind me,” Bill says. “This is all great material for my next book.”

Richie grins and gestures to himself. “I’m the protagonist, right? Eddie’s the damsel?”

“I’m thinking more of a psychological thriller,” Bill says, glancing towards Stan. “One man, driven to madness.”

“Please stop getting along,” Stan pleads.

“It’s the celebrity bond,” Richie says, “you know, you and Eddie bond over being plebs. Whereas we both understand what it’s like as a member of the _elite_.”

“I write horror novels,” Bill says. “That’s the level of celebrity where people are like ‘His name sounds vaguely familiar? Is he a KFC spokesperson?’”

“Richie’s best known as ‘that guy who was in those Burger King commercials ten years ago’, Eddie says. “So he can definitely relate.”

“Eddie’s my biggest fan,” Richie says dreamily. “He knows my filmography by heart.”

“Not difficult,” says Eddie. “It’s 2 advertisements and 1 cameo as a guy who gets murdered in a cop show.”

And Bill; thinking how nice it must be to have someone in your life who knows every fraction of your history; asks, “How long have you guys been together?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Richie laughs too high, shaking his head semi-frantically. Eddie, stony-faced, just says, “We’re not.”

“Oh God,” Bill says, certain that he’s utterly fucked all and any future social encounters with the three of them. “I’m s-so sorry. I don’t know why I assumed-” _It may have been because Stan described them as “constantly horny for each other in a way that’s really irritating to the rest of us.”_

“It’s fine,” Stan says, hand on his shoulder, “ask them again in six months.”

“Stanley.” Eddie hisses.

“Three months, then,” Stan corrects, tugging Bill out of the living room and into the kitchen.

“Stan. I’m s-so sorry, oh my God.”

“You need to relax,” Stan says. “Richie will say something far more offensive within the next 3 seconds.”

“What about Eddie? I think he hates me now.”

“Eddie hates all his friends.”

There’s a brief pause before they hear Eddie’s screech from the living room.

“You can’t just ask your friends if they’ve ever thought about screwing you, what the fuck Richie?”

Bill blinks. “Is _that_ my fault? Or is this like…par for the course?”

“Par for the course,” says Stan, now rifling through cupboards. “It’s the same dance every day. Actually, dance makes it sound too elegant. It’s more like twerking in each others’ faces until one of them sprains something.”

“I hope that’s a metaphor.”

“At this point? Who knows.” Stan hands two bottles of bourbon to Bill. “Go, save the day.”

Given that it takes another two hours for the party to break up, Bill would say it does the trick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, the Kidzbop cover of Thank U, Next is [real,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JngLd4DtV_w) and a chilling lesson about the dangers of making art maximally generic and accessible.


	4. Chapter 4

Bill wakes up with a splitting headache and _Get drunk **after** the cute nerd’s contact details are in your phone, you idiot_ running through his head.

Quickly abated by the fact that Eddie and Richie have friended him on Facebook, and Richie’s sent him a message. A set of digits, and:

_Text this number for a free lecture on the evils of social media_

_(Stan’s not on Facebook)_

Bill shoots off a quick thank you and adds it to his contacts.

_Hey_ , he texts.

_Richie gave me your number_

_I hope that’s ok_

His phone dings a couple of minutes later.

_He normally gives my contact details out to companies offering free samples_

_So this is preferable_

_When I finish this book, all I want on the back is:_

_“Preferable to spam” – Stan Uris_

_Preferable to spam from the companies Richie wants free shit from_

_It’s a very specific subset_

_You’ve started a new book?_

_Started is generous._

The conversation turns to writer’s block, which turns out to be the goose that lays the golden egg ( _too cliché a metaphor_ , his publisher would say, but Bill’s a little bird-brained at the moment).

_You’re telling me you stay in the house all day staring at a screen and trying to write, and then you wonder why you can’t write? You need a change of scenery_

_Or literally ANY kind of outside stimulation_

_I get brunch at the Doubletime Café each Sunday_

_If you ever want a break, you’re welcome to join_

Bill writes a response rife with typos. _Perfect. Now you have a text stutter too._

Stan looks up as soon as the bell on the door jingles.

Bill, who wasn’t aware there _was_ a bell, is in the middle of smoothing down his hair.

Stan lifts a hand. It’s the kind of gesture men in business suits do in order to get the cheque. Bill waves back, much less suave, then goes to sit opposite. The stool has to be yanked out of the table legs in order for him to sit down.

“…You alright?” Stan says, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh-huh,” says Bill, possibly sweating from having done more exercise than he’s done all week. “I almost missed you in the sea of exposed beams and hanging bulbs.”

“Oh. They’re not hipsters,” Stan says pre-emptively, “they’re just poor.”

Bill snorts. He looks at Stan’s button-up plaid shirt and chinos. “The clientele are definitely giving me hipster vibes.”

“I’m just uncool. _And_ poor,” Stan says. “It’s not a statement. Pretend-mason-jar-glasses confuse me as much as the next guy.”

Bill takes a look at the menu, overflowing with acai, _not hipster my ass,_ and orders the one thing that comes with chips. Stan, being an adult, orders a salad.

The chips turn out to be polenta, but they are, at least, oily.

“I think this is the first actual food product I’ve eaten in 48 hours,” he says. “When I write I usually just have caffeine and gummy bears.”

Stan looks physically ill. “…Are you writing about the horrors of malnutrition?”

Bill gets out his phone and starts typing frantically. “…Horrors…of…malnutrition.” He looks up. “I need all the inspiration I can get,” he explains, relishing the reluctant uptick of Stan’s mouth.

When Stan smiles like that, head dipping, Bill thinks _it’s a date._

But when brunch ends, without an ounce of physical contact, the pendulum in Bill’s head swings right back.

When the 4th brunch is as platonic as the 1st, Bill thinks it’s time to reset his expectations.

And he manages. More or less. If, sometimes, he wants to tuck Stan’s ringlets behind his ear...that’s called being a good friend.

And he thinks they _are_ good friends; enough so that when a paper on his door notifies him that he needs to _vacate the premises from the_ 23rd to the 25th due to an _unforeseen pest issue_ , Bill’s second thought is _talk to Stan._ (His first is _God fucking dammit.)_

Bill decides he’s going to bring it up when they’re perusing the shelves of the neighbourhood games shop. They have a routine for their visits: Stan browses the puzzles while Bill brings him increasingly child-focussed board games.

“…I seriously doubt a game called _Hungry Hungry Hippos_ is for children, Stan. I’ve written enough about hippos eating human flesh to consider myself an expert on it, and-”

A little furrow appears in Stan’s brow. “I know you know what _Hungry Hungry Hippos_ is.”

“I think I’m going to buy it for my next horror writer convention.”

“Great. Have fun spending $20 trying to annoy me.”

“Worth every penny.”

But Stan is transfixed by a puzzle of a blue jay. “Ok,” he says, picking it up. “I’m ready to pay. You done?”

“So,” Bill says while they’re queueing to pay. “Turns out my apartment block’s getting fumigated in about a week. Most of my friends live out of town, and the hotels around here are pretty booked out, so I’m kind of looking for a place to stay and, you know, just feel free to stop this train of thought at any point, but-”

“Um,” Stan says, shifting uncomfortably. “Look, I _would_ offer you my place, but-”

“It’s totally fine,” Bill says pre-emptively. “You don’t need to explain.” His phone dings, and he digs in his pocket for it. “Look at that! I’ve already got a response from a guy on Craigslist who’s offering to pay _me_ to sleep on his couch. Problem solved!”

“Oh God,” Stan says. “You’re not _that_ desperate for horror novel ideas. Please don’t sleep in that apartment unless you’re ok with never waking up.”

Bill tries to give an appeasing smile. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Listen,” Stan says, “You can stay at my place, just. I’m sort of a nightmare to live with.”

“…Right. The cleanliness, the early bedtimes, the general quietude. I’m sure it’s terrible.”

Stan sighs. “Ok. You know how I tend to have…a particular way of doing things?”

“…I may have noticed.” _Stan’s long fingers rolling up the sleeves of his cardigan an even 3 times each. Stan ruling lines 3 times over._

“Well. It’s worse, at home. Because that’s my space. So. I’m responsible for everything that happens there. And I get these feelings, like certain things have to do be done immediately, and basically, sometimes there’s going to be vacuuming at 3 am.”

“Sounds like a treat. I’ve never roomed with someone who vacuums.”

Stan rolls his eyes.

“Seriously, it’s fine. You’d be doing me the favour, and I get it if I’m too much of a disruption but you wouldn’t bother me, truly.”

“Ok,” Stan says doubtfully. “Well, we’ll see, I guess.”

Bill pays for the puzzle as a thank you. Stan is very reluctant to let him, but even more reluctant to inconvenience the cashier and the 3 people in line behind him by arguing about it.

It’s only once they’re out of the store that a look of trepidation crosses Stan’s face. “…Does this mean _Hungry Hungry Hippos_ is staying at my place?”

Bill beams at him.


	5. Chapter 5

It turns out Bill doesn’t have to move any furniture. He brings _Hungry Hungry Hippos_ just the same.

“A housewarming gift,” he says when he turns up at Stan’s door.

“That’s funny,” Stan says, “cause usually people bring wine.” It’s only 8, but he’s already wearing a set of flannel pajamas.

He motions Bill in and starts going through a concierge-esque spiel. “The bed is all set up and I’ve put a clean towel at the foot for you. Have whatever you want from the kitchen. Oh, uh, WiFi password is 3636599818-”

Bill scrambles to type it into his phone.

“-I usually go to the park pretty early in the morning so. Don’t freak out if I’m not there.”

“You voluntarily wake up early? On the weekend?”

“It’s better for birdwatching,” Stan says. “And there’s less people lining up for bagels. Do you want a breakfast bagel?”

“I’d love a breakfast bagel.”

Stan nods, seemingly satisfied that all important matters have been decided. Then there’s a second of silence.

“…Is this your bedtime?” Bill asks, wondering if their waking hours are going to coincide at all.

“…It’s 8 o’clock,” Stan says, looking slightly offended.

“You’re wearing PJs.”

“I have a pre-bedtime ritual.” Stan says. “PJs come before puzzles.”

Bill's not sure he's ever found another grown man this adorable. He spies the half-completed puzzle sitting on the coffee table, and asks, “Can I help?”

“If you want,” Stan says, in a tone that suggests he highly doubts Bill wants to.

But Bill very much does want to, so they both kneel on cushions by the coffee table.

Stan slots each piece into its place with gentle quickness and factory precision. Bill watches his fingertip press each piece before it lifts and starts again, finding the whole scene a little hypnotic. It’s like one of those _How it’s Made_ videos. _High-tech equipment allows several hundred puzzle pieces to move every minute._ Bill slots in about 3 pieces in the time it takes Stan to complete the puzzle.

Stan yawns right on cue, a second after he slots in the final piece.

“ _Now_ it’s your bedtime?”

Stan rolls his eyes, but admits, “Usually. But if you want to watch TV or something I can stay up for a little.”

Stan had insisted on taking the couch. Bill’s pretty sure it’s already put a big dent in his carefully curated routine.

“Pretty sure I can entertain myself in my room for an hour.” Bill winces as he realises how that sounds. “I have a phone and an internet connection,” he adds, with the distinct impression he’s made it worse.

Stan motions over to the bookshelf. “You can grab a book too if…you…want.” His eyes widen halfway through the sentence, and he trails off in a tone that suggests he strongly regrets bringing up the bookshelf.

Bill is intensely curious as to why. His first thought is _it’s 6 shelves worth of highly specific erotica_ , though that may say more about Bill’s headspace than Stan’s.

He makes his way over to the bookshelf, blue paint peeling off the sides, but nothing embarrassing jumps out. No erotica, although it does look like an English teacher’s wet dream, all classics and avant-garde modern novels and- _Oh Jesus._

“You own one of my books.”

Stan scratches the back of his neck, wrinkles up his face, and says, sheepishly, “I own a couple.”

“Oh my God.” Bill is very aware that, no matter how much blood, sweat and tears he puts into them, his novels are not, generally, considered to be literature. So the fact that the 2-different-editions-of- _Brideshead-Revisited_ -owning, most-functional-adult-he-knows reads his books is filling him with a kind of bubbling pride, on top of some hazier emotions that Bill isn’t going to examine too closely.

Bill can see the muscles in Stan’s shoulders start tensing. He thinks maybe Stan thinks he’s freaking out for entirely the wrong reason, so he tries to break the tension with a joke. “Good, right?”

Stan snorts. “I don’t know. You’re no Garth Marenghi.”

“Oh, I know several reviewers who would disagree with you there. To quote the _Times,_ ‘the scariest part of Denbrough’s latest horrorfest is his life-threatening allergy to subtlety’.”

“I don’t know what they’re talking about,” Stan says, half-smiling, “I thought the part where they’re all literally haunted by the memory of their dead friend was very subtle. Especially when he turned into a scorpion.”

Bill grins. “Come on. Everyone loves a scorpion-man.”

“…Weren’t you going to bed?” Stan asks.

“Just let me…grab a book,” Bill says, taking his own book from the shelf just to see Stan’s face pinch.

Bill lays down on Stan’s perfectly-made, lavender-scented bed, and flicks through the book, unable to tamp down the need to know if it’s well-thumbed.

It is, but he notices something even better. Pencilling on the pages.

 _Obsession with basements???_ _Does he know there are other rooms in a house?_

He snorts.

 _Well now he has to read the whole thing, right?_ Stan’s a hard man to know, and the thought of getting a window into his brain is too attractive to pass up. He feels a little voyeuristic, but then, Stan didn’t stop him taking the book. And the thought that maybe Stan wants him to know is exciting in itself.

He flips to the first page, met by Stan immediately guessing the ending. But it doesn’t dent his mood too much. Stan is far from effusive, but there are dozens of page corners turned over, and passages outlined in delicate curlicues, and _Foreshadowing I only noticed on the fourth read-through,_ and _How did this get a pulp reputation?_ and all kinds of asides that make Bill’s chest tighten.

He doesn’t notice how far he’s read until he sees _JUST PRETEND IT ENDS HERE_ , written 5 pages before the ending. 

Bill grins, and does as he’s told, closing the book, and putting it on his bedside table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stan is referencing [Garth Marenghi's Darkplace.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8EkN8WtFTpE)  
> I like to imagine Bill's books have a lot of similarities.


	6. Chapter 6

Bill wakes, more well-rested than he’s felt in months, walks into the kitchen and sees a golden-brown breakfast bagel on the counter.

Stan turns around from where he’s boiling the kettle. “It’s a little soggy. You’re a late sleeper.”

“…It’s 9am.”

“ _Well_ , they were bought at 6am,” Stan says.

Bill sits down on the stool at the counter, and takes a bite of the bagel.

“Still good,” he says, mouth full. It’s too early for etiquette to sink in.

Which might also explain why, unprompted, he asks, “…Why did you never mention that you read my books?”

Stan flushes. “I didn’t want you to think I was some crazy, obsessive fan.”

“You chewed me out the first time we met. ‘Obsessive fan’ was definitely not the vibe I was getting.”

Stan’s cheeks just burn even brighter, in a way Bill might be enjoying a little too much, so he adds, “Etching all over my books, on the other hand…”

Stan’s cheeks rapidly go from pink to white. “In my defence,” he says, “I didn’t know you were going to read-”

“I liked it,” Bill interrupts, smiling at him. “You’re kinder that most reviewers.”

“Yeah, well. Most reviewers are idiots,” Stan says bluntly. He turns to fuss with the coffee. Bill grins at him through his bagel.

“I have to do some work from home today,” Stan says, “You can occupy yourself, yeah?”

“No,” says Bill. “I require constant attention.”

“God, I love having celebrity friends,” Stan deadpans.

Bill grins. “Yes, I can occupy myself. I’m supposed to be writing, actually.”

Stan sets himself up at his desk while Bill sits on the couch with his laptop.

He stares at the screen for 5 minutes, before his phone, thankfully, interrupts.

“Harry here,” the voice over the phone echoes. “I know this was important to you, so: Evelyn’s galoshes. Green or red?”

Bill watches Stan tilt his head as he arcs a line up the page, swanlike neck stretched.

“Uh. That seems like something you should ask the costume designer.”

There’s a stunned silence from the other end.

“…Ok. Yeah. Costume designer.” His voice gets significantly cheerier. “Well, I’ll talk to you later, Bill.”

Bill takes advantage of the fact that Stan’s turned his head a little, distracted by the call. “Got any good horror novel titles off the top of your head?” _Bill does not, generally, start a book with the title. But Stan doesn’t know that._

Stan thinks for a second, then offers, “The Hills are Dead with the Sound of Zombies?”

Bill blinks. “Wow. That really was off the top of your head. Do you have a store of horror-musical ideas up there?”

“Yes,” Stan says, entirely seriously. “I play a _lot_ of word games in my head when I get anxious. Into the Cabin in the Woods, Wes Died Gory-”

“School of Glock,” Bill offers.

Stan wrinkles his nose up in thought, then offers, “Foot: Loose.”

Bill snorts. “That’s it. That’s my new novel.”

“I’ll send your publicist flowers,” Stan says, standing up. “Do you want tea?”

“Yes please.”

Stan heads to the kitchen. “Writing credit:” Bill calls out as he types. “Stanley Uris.”

“I didn’t consent to that,” Stan says back, equally loudly, and then Bill hears the clattering of the teapot.

He smiles. He thinks about the snarky little asides Stan scattered through his book, and, for the first time, thinks seriously about Richie’s offer. Or rather, Richie’s agent’s offer. He dials Richie’s number.

“Hey Rich. Is this a good time?”

“You’ll have to be quick,” Richie says, “Eddie puts a cap on how much attention I can spend on people other than him, and I’m reaching today’s limit.”

Bill hears some distant swearing from Richie’s end. “Right. Well. I know you’re not super keen on the horror comedy idea, but I think it could actually-”

“Bill,” says Richie. “I’m gonna be honest with you. My agent didn’t mention a horror comedy. Stan just wouldn’t shut up about the fact that he got to work on _genius author Bill Denbrough’s_ film. And I thought if you could meet up outside of work-well. I just thought it would make him happy. Sorry. I know it was kind of shitty of me.”

“Oh.” says Bill, feeling kind of lighthearted given that he’s being rejected. He glances towards the kitchen, lowering his voice. “I, um, kind of thought he hated me, the first time we met. He sort of lectured me.”

“Were you being a dick?” Richie asks, but there’s no venom in it.

“…Not intentionally,” Bill says, and Richie laughs.

“Yeah, well, Stanley Uris’ moral code bends for no man. Not even cute celebrity authors.”

_Cute?_ Bill wants to ask, _Are those Stan’s words, or…_

He aims for something a little more professional. “You know, if you’re _at all_ open to the horror comedy thing, agent or no-”

“I just got the hang of writing in my own voice,” Richie says, sounding softer than usual. “I don’t know that a collaboration is what I need right now.”

“Got it. Thanks anyway.”

“Write it anyway,” Richie says. “Tell you what, once it’s out, if you get a movie deal, I’ll play the dashing protagonist.”

“…Comic relief?” Bill counteroffers.

Richie snorts. “Deal.”

It’s only after they’ve said their goodbyes that Bill realises the idea of making another film was raised without him running in the opposite direction.

He thinks that counts as progress.

,

They spend the day at their stations. At 6:30, Stan gets up to make dinner.

“Spaghetti ok?”

“My dinner for the last week has been Egg McMuffins, so spaghetti sounds great. You want help with anything?”

Stan, looking appalled at his life choices, asks, “That depends. Do you know how to cook anything?”

Bill thinks about it. He’s about to say _I can grate cheese_ , when Stan says, “Better stick to writing that bestseller. So you can keep yourself in Egg McMuffins and gummy bears.”

Bill grins at him, and gets back to writing.

Within half an hour, Stan comes back with two plates, and says, “There’s a pygmy geese documentary on at 7. You can join if you want. I don’t know why you’d want to, but-”

Bill can already picture the way Stan’s eyes get just a little wider when he’s paying attention to something, head leaning forward like it’s being reeled in.

“I love pygmy geese. Big pygmy goose fan.”

Stan lets out a little laugh of disbelief. “Ok.”

They sit on the couch, knees furled underneath them, brushing against each other whenever they reach for their dinner.

“How did writing go?” Stan asks, as the advertisements play.

“There are words on a page.”

“Better than usual, then,” Stan says flatly, and _oh, it’s bad that Bill can imagine doing this every night._

_Just friends_ , Bill reminds himself. _For who knows how long._

He can’t bring up the possibility of anything else – he’s already invading Stan’s home and his work. Bill has realised, by now, that the amount of actual control he actually has over the movie is more or less equivalent to the amount of control a cyclist has over a rabid magpie. But in the hierarchy they all pretend to adhere to, he’s above Stan. ( _Don’t think about being above Stan_.) Over Stan. On top of Stan? ( _You made it worse)._

Besides which. He’s not even sure Stan feels that way. About him. About anyone. He has this way of holding himself, turned inward, like he doesn’t want to be touched. Every time they’re on public transport, Stan will fold himself up like a concertina rather than brush against someone. And Bill doesn’t want to be the grit in the clam that makes it slam shut.

So. It’s this, for now. Knocking knees in the most innocent way imaginable.


	7. Chapter 7

Bill has to channel all of that not-flirting-with-Stan energy somewhere.

And convincing him to play _Hungry Hungry Hippos_ seems like as good a place as any.

“It’s our last night together,” _Wow, creepy way to phrase that, Denbrough._ “I just want to play Triple H while we still can.”

“Triple H?” asks Stan, clearly intent on staying curled up on the couch with his book. “You can’t labour through saying the entirety of its name, but you still want us to play it?”

“I guess we don’t have to,” Bill says strategically. “I _was_ gonna spend the evening looking through the rest of your bookshelf, see what annotations you’ve made-”

“Triple H,” Stan says, putting his book down. “Let’s play.”

“That’s the _whole_ game?” Stan asks, 2 minutes later.

“Uh-huh,” Bill says. “Now you can go back to your book. Secure in the knowledge that I’m the best at this.”

Stan narrow his eyes, resting his fingers on the hippo tails with the cautious sobriety of a cowboy with his hand on the trigger of a gun. “Round 2. I’m gonna win this time.”

It _should_ end there, their time as roomies perfectly parcelled into a neat little package. It should not end with Bill hearing clattering in the middle of the night, with the blaring thought _I’m gonna die. The last thing I did with my life was play Hungry Hungry Hippos and I’m gonna die._

Stan’s fucking Marie-Kondoed bedroom doesn’t contain anything heavy enough to brain an intruder with, so Bill has to spend 5 minutes reaching behind the bed to unplug the table lamp.

He tiptoes into the living room, holding his makeshift weapon, looking like a time traveller with a very confused idea of how gas lamps work nowadays.

Stan, who is looking through the fridge, spins around, face gradually morphing from concern to confusion. His cheeks are wan, grey rings around his eyes.

“I thought you were a murderer,” Bill explains.

Stan shrugs. “Night’s still young.”

Bill delicately puts the lamp on the ground and hovers. There are jars littering the counter.

“Is this a v-vacuuming at 3 am thing?” he asks, moving to lean against the counter.

Stan huffs a laugh, like he’s surprised Bill remembered. “Yeah. Kinda.” He gestures to the jars. “They’re just. They’re not sorted properly, and I didn’t want everything to topple when you try to grab something.”

“Sorry,” says Bill. “I know me being here disrupts a lot of-”

“No,” Stan says. “It’s not your fault. It’s not like I don’t know-” He takes a breath and turns back to the fridge, reaching over to put a jar back. “I know it doesn’t make sense,” he says quietly.

Bill doesn’t know what to say to that, so he tries, “Can I help?”

“It has to be me. But thanks. Um, you can go back to bed.” He reaches for another jar, twists the lid firm.

Bill doesn’t know what the right play is, but he feels very weird about leaving Stan here while he sleeps.

He snaps his fingers, as if in realisation. “Crackers. That’s what I was coming out here to get.”

Stan looks at him sceptically, continuing to sort jars. “I thought you were coming out here because you thought we were in the midst of a home invasion?”

“Exactly. Fear makes me hungry.” He goes to the cupboard and gets a few crackers from their packet, making sure to leave it as he found it. He leans against the counter and nibbles on a cracker.

The corner of Stan’s mouth quirks up a little.

“They should make mayonnaise bottles the same size as ketchup bottles,” Stan says, a few seconds later as he puts an aioli jar on the top shelf of the fridge. “It’s just logical.”

“And what about those twist nozzles?” Bill asks. “It’s like they want all that crud to accumulate at the top.”

“That’s to punish people who keep their condiments outside of the fridge,” Stan says, in a tone that suggests he knows exactly where Bill keeps his condiments.

5 minutes later, the jars are all lined up on their proper shelves.

“All good?” Bill asks, and Stan nods, giving him a half-smile.

Bill heads back to his room while Stan settles back on the couch.

Bill sleeps for a blissful twenty minutes, until he hears clattering again, and makes his way to the kitchen to find Stan standing in the light of the fridge. Stan turns at the noise, guilt lancing through his features, then resignation.

The _thump_ of the fridge door closing echoes in the quiet.

“I got hungry,” Stan says defensively.

“Stan,” he says, and abruptly starts coughing, _because, apparently, his_ _fucking body can’t handle a fucking nap, and it has a deeply inconvenient love of bathos._ He gets a glass, fills it with water from the tap, and skulls it.

Stan stares at him, then, on autopilot, checks each of the taps. Self-awareness ducks in, somewhere along the way, and Stan’s long fingers clench around the half-enamelled taps, head bowing.

Bill grew up in a small, redneck town. He knows what it looks like when someone’s trying to cry quietly.

“Sorry,” Stan whispers. “Fuck.” And Bill doesn’t know if he’s apologising about the taps or the crying, or both, but more importantly, he doesn’t know what to do about it.

He has an idea of what you’re generally _supposed_ to do in these situations. With people who aren’t Stan.

“Hey, it’s ok. My aunt’s the same with her ornamental cherubs. Not that I’m saying this is the same, obviously, but uh...” he spirals off, somewhat frantically, doing absolutely nothing to stop the shivery little sniffles coming from Stan.

 _Last-ditch attempt, then._ Fully prepared to get kneed in the groin, or endure whatever reflex action occurs when someone invades Stan’s personal bubble, he pulls him into a light hug.

What he doesn’t expect is Stan’s arms to canvas his back, fingers curling into his baggy grey tee, pulling him closer.

_Sure, ideally their first hug wouldn’t involve Stan letting out halting little sobs into the crook of his shoulder, but Bill’s really trying to look on the bright side right now._

Stan pulls back after a minute, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his grandpa pyjamas. “Uh,” he says, sounding congested. With a tone that suggests they are _not_ going to talk about any of this, he adds, “I still need to…” He gestures to the fridge.

“You’re saying we’re gonna need more crackers.”

Stan’s mouth quirks up. “Go to bed. Seriously. I don’t know how long this is gonna take, and this is far beyond what’s listed in the good roommate code.”

“I can’t sleep anyway,” Bill says, heading to the cupboard. “So unless I’m actively making things worse….” He pauses. “Do you have any unhealthy snacks? Like, in the whole house?”

“…There are digestive biscuits on the top shelf,” Stan admits, and Bill pulls them down triumphantly.

He munches on one, leaning against the counter as Stan sorts through his jars.

He only realises he’s drifted off when a cool hand curls around his shoulder. “I’m done,” Stan says. “Go to bed. I don’t even want to think about the ergonomic consequences of sleeping slumped against a counter.”

Bill _does_ know the ergonomic consequences of spending the night slumped against a counter, so he sleepily mumbles his agreement, and stumbles off to bed.

He wakes up earlier than Stan, for once. _Which may be a good thing,_ he considers as he makes himself some cereal. _Time to process_. Not his feelings, which, he is painfully aware, have not changed one iota since last night. But adjusting. Trying to make things easier for Stan. Expending twice as much effort on making his bed as he usually does. Which is to say, making his bed.

He’s lying on the couch with a book, certain that everything in the kitchen is in its proper place, when Stan sleepily emerges from his room, still in his flannel pyjamas, and blinks at him. “You’re still here.”

Bill tries not to look hurt. “…Should I not be?”

“No, no, I just figured you’d want to get back to your mildew-free apartment.”

“Oh,” says Bill, still not feeling particularly welcome. “Uh. I was just planning on finishing this.” He holds up his book. “I really think things are going to work out for this Heathcliff character.”

“I hope so. He’s so plucky and genial.” _And that’s not a “Get the fuck out of my house,_ ” _so Bill’s going to push his luck for a little longer._

“Did I…did I do something wrong, last night?”

And maybe he pushed a little too far, because it’s like the blinds shutter closed on Stan’s face.

“No.” Stan gives him a tight little smile. “You’re good.”

“Oh,” says Bill, feeling a thrum of dread. “Good.”


	8. Chapter 8

Bill thinks, bleakly, that maybe he _didn’t_ do anything wrong. Maybe he was just in Stan’s space long enough to get on his nerves, the same way he seems to with everyone on set.

Either way, he thinks a gift is the way to go. And then Stan can read it as a _Sorry_ , or a _Thank you_ , or a _Congratulations on winning 2 out of 3 rounds of Hungry Hungry Hippos._ However he wants to read it.

He knows, from a conversation they had in the middle of dinner, that Stan’s a little obsessed with bowerbirds.

On theme, he fills a basket with dried blueberries and blue orchids. Blue wine, because he thinks Stan will find the very concept _challenging._ And a 3000 piece puzzle of the sky.

 _For your bower_ , Bill writes on a slip of paper, and rests it atop the basket.

Stan’s eyes widen when Bill turns up with his hamper. It tugs at the little spindle in Bill’s chest, wrecking his chances of being smooth and ambiguous, and making “It’s a th-thank-you-slash-sorry-for-being-a-terrible-roommate,” tumble out of his mouth.

Stan blinks three times, processing, then says, “You weren’t a terrible roommate. And you really didn’t have to-But, I mean, thank you. This is-wow. This is a lot.”

“Yeah, it’s probably the cheesiest thing I’ve ever made.”

“I’ve read your books,” Stan says, taking the hamper. “We both know that’s not true.”

“Ha. Yeah, well, I should probably-”

“Stay for a drink?” Stan asks. He pulls the blue wine out of the hamper. “I need to find someone willing to consume this.”

“Hm.” Bill swirls it in his mouth before swallowing. “I’m getting notes of gel food colouring.”

“No kidding.” Stan sits opposite him at his little counter, head propped up on a hand. Bill’s been realising just how excruciating it is to drink when other people aren’t, Stan’s hazel eyes following the bob of his Adam’s apple with each sip.

“You sure you don’t want some?” Bill asks, nudging the glass over. He realises his mistake, about to get a new glass, when Stan grabs the glass and takes a sip

Bill feels uncomfortably warm for a second. And then Stan’s face scrunches up. “Oh God. It’s like cough syrup.”

“I always loved cough syrup,” Bill says. "Best part of being sick.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Stan says. Bill’s about to take the glass back when Stan lifts the glass and gulps down the rest of it with purpose.

“You really weren’t a bad roomie,” Stan says, fingers curling around the stem of the glass. “Like, when my great-aunt comes to stay. _She’s_ a bad roomie. I kinda liked having you around.”

“I moved the butter,” Bill admits, words spilling out to counteract the guilty warmth spreading through him. “In your fridge. Before I knew it mattered.”

Stan glances at him for a second, then snorts. “Yeah, that’s not-I change my mind about the right way to sort my kitchen every 3 days. You didn’t do anything. Except witness a grown man having a breakdown over mustard.” And suddenly it’s very clear to Bill that Stan might be reserved, and private, and unwilling to suffer fools, but he’s also a little _shy_. And a little self-conscious.

“I’ve lectured a set designer over moving a chair 3 inches,” Bill says. “I’m really not in the position to throw stones.”

Stan’s glass-sharp mouth looks even better when it’s molten, twisting up at the edges.

He glances away, and says, “You forgot to take _Hungry Hungry Hippos_ home. That one _is_ on you.”

Bill nudges his arm against Stan’s, revelling in the fact that he doesn’t pull away. “Nice try, bud. That’s a gift and you’re never getting rid of it.”

“Then the least you can do is help me get rid of this,” Stan says, pouring out more of the blue wine.

Bill is happy to oblige.


	9. Chapter 9

With the joint revelations that Stan’s reservedness isn’t entirely purposeful, and that he’s not going to roundhouse-kick anyone who touches him; Bill finds himself poking and prodding a lot more. Literally and figuratively.

They’re having brunch mojitos to celebrate their work on the film wrapping up. It hasn’t been an ideal experience, but, at the end of the day, there’s going to be a film out there based on _(some_ _of)_ Bill’s book. His feelings, much like their drinks, are muddled.

But focussing on Stan is a good antidote, so, pulling at the sleeve to Stan’s button-up, he asks, “Were you wearing stuff like this in primary school? Or did you have a rebellious phase?”

“I had a rebellious phase that only lasted for the duration of my bar mitzvah. My dad’s a rabbi, so he loves telling me how my little performance financially ruined him.”

“Oh.” says Bill. “Do you think-” And stops himself there, rethinking how appropriate voicing any of this would be.

Stan raises an eyebrow. “Do I think?”

“You feel so responsible for fixing things. And I just wondered. If that came _after_ your dad laid your family’s entire future on you.”

“Well,” Stan says dryly, “it definitely didn’t help.” He shrugs it off. “It’s dumb, though. I mean we lived in a small, redneck town. My friends went through _actual_ trauma. I was basically as lucky as I could’ve been.”

Bill runs his lip through his teeth. “I lost my brother at a fair when I was 13,” he says eventually. “We were only looking for 20 minutes before we found him at an ice-cream truck, but at the time I was so sure he would be dead. He was _fine_ , and I don’t think he even remembers that day, but I, uh, still have nightmares about it. So. Very familiar with having unimpressive trauma. Doesn’t stop it from fucking with you.”

The look that Stan gives him is understanding, sympathetic without an ounce of pity. And Bill’s heart feels more anchored to him than ever.

“I _definitely_ would’ve picked you for an only child,” he says, and Bill laughs, feeling very close to saying _fuck it,_ and asking Stan on an actual date, when Stan continues, “What’s your brother like?” and the moment is quite thoroughly gone.

There are other opportunities. Bill’s painfully aware of that fact, because every time he misses one, hesitates just a little too long, he mentally kicks himself. 

They’re at a studio party, the two unpopular kids standing in the corner near the food, when Bill decides he needs to strike _now_ , opening or no, lest he actually start bashing his head against the nearest wall.

“Are you going to the premiere?” he asks.

“Uh,” Stan says. “I don’t think I’m invited.”

“Neither is Richie. Didn’t stop him announcing that he’s coming. And bringing along Eddie.”

Stan shrugs. “They’re publicity events. It’s celebrities and top tier crew only. And their dates.”

“Oh.” Bill says. “Well, that’s fucking _dumb_ , I mean you basically sketched out the movie, but. You could be my da-plus one.” _Coward._ “If you w-wanted to come.”

“That’s ok,” Stan says. “Knocking elbows with crowds of celebrities? Having to avoid awkwardly photobombing the people they actually want to take pictures of? Not really my thing.”

“Got it,” Bill says, feeling a little like he’s been winded. _It’s fine! He’s fine. He’s got a fucking movie coming out, who cares about men who are 80% cheekbones?_ “I’d probably stay home too, if it wouldn’t be, you know. A publicity disaster?”

“The struggles of being a famous author,” Stan says with a half-smile.

“Uh-huh. Think of me while you’re watching _Blue Planet_ and I’m being forced to make conversation with Alec Baldwin.”

Stan’s smile grows and he ducks his head. “I will,” he promises, and it _hurts_.


	10. Chapter 10

_You’re wearing a suit,_ Bill reminds himself. _Like a real grown-up. So pretend to be a professional, and not a lovestruck teen who feels like their heart’s been put through an extruder._

He opens up his phone to a file called _Gore to satisfy the post-Saw generation_ and adds _heart in an extruder?_ to the list of ideas. His love life, unfortunately, continues to be a rich vein of horror inspiration.

He hears a knock at the door, and feels an instant panic that it’s somehow related to tonight. _Bad news, all the film went up in smoke, as well as our entire computer lab. Freak accident._

Which is why it’s not his fault if he startles a little, when he opens the door and Stan is standing there. Not in a cardigan. In a charcoal suit, jade shirt peeking through like ivy on a cliff.

Bill swallows, not sure what’s happening, but absolutely certain that he’s not prepared for it.

“Hey.” Stan says. “Uh, I hope you didn’t ask someone else to be your plus one because then this is… _very_ awkward.”

“Um,” Bill says. _Who would I ask?_ “N-no, I didn’t, I just. Thought you didn’t want to come?”

“Yeah,” Stan says. “About that. I kind of thought you were asking me because you felt bad that I wasn’t invited. But then I was talking to Richie, and he thought you were just… _a_ _sking me_ , asking me. And I was being a dick.”

“Yeah,” Bill says, clamping his hand around the door frame so it doesn’t shake. “Richie was pretty much on the money.” He winces. “About me asking you. N-not about you being a dick. I mean, you don’t have to go.”

“I want to,” says Stan. “I was thinking about it, and it’s a pretty big milestone. I mean, this film is basically your _baby_.”

“Our baby” Bill says absent-mindedly, not wanting to take full credit. He hears the words, and feels an immediate, piercing regret. “Nevermind. Pretend I never opened my mouth.”

Stan’s mouth quirks. “ _Your_ baby. I would not have agreed to name a child _The Deadening_.”

“We’re white hipsters living in LA,” Bill says, feeling braver, “Our baby names could be much worse.”

“Speak for yourself,” Stan says, and lets himself in, sitting on the couch. “Just so you know, I am going to abandon you to TMZ on the red carpet. I’m speedrunning that shit.”

“Like Sonic,” Bill says thoughtfully. Stan narrows his eyes, so he adds, “That’s fine.” _Stan could publicly denounce the film all the way down the red carpet_ , _and Bill would still be riding the high of him being there._

“Oh,” he remembers, “I think Eddie might be joining you.”

Eddie does join Stan in powerwalking to the end of the red carpet, despite the fact that Richie yells, “Catch him! He’s getting away!” as soon as Eddie detaches from him.

Bill watches the two of them standing by the theatre. Eddie’s glaring at Richie because several reporters had confusedly snapped photos of him fleeing. Stan’s observing the two of them with some amusement. It’s probably the closest Stan has ever come to looking cool; arms folded in his fancy suit, smirking as he leans against the wall.

Bill absolutely cannot handle it. He prays the cardigans make a swift return.

Thankfully, a sleek, high-ponytailed reporter is already making her way towards him, and the next 10 minutes are spent discussing character arcs and future projects, not the fact that _Stan actually left not one, but two buttons of his shirt undone, can you believe it? You can see his whole clavicle. It’s some kind of record._

It doesn't take too long for Bill to finish up on the carpet and catch up with Stan and Eddie. Richie takes a little longer, continually getting pulled aside. When he arrives, Eddie gives him a dirty look. “Shocker. The attention whore spent longer on the red carpet than the people who _actually worked on the movie_.”

Richie grins and tries to ruffle his hair while Eddie bats him away. “What can I say? The camera loves me. The camera is _in_ love with me. The camera wants me to lay it down on a bearskin rug and-”

“Beep beep,” Bill says lightly, then pauses. “Did I use that right?”

“You used that _perfectly_." Stan beams at him.

Richie grins at him too. Only Eddie looks a little peeved that he didn’t get to use it first, but his expression swiftly changes as he looks out at the red carpet.

“…Is that Linda Cardellini?”

“Yep,” Bill says. “She plays Helena.”

“Wow,” Eddie breathes.

“Oh yeah,” Richie pipes up. “You always loved her, cause you were such a little Velma.”

“Shut up,” Eddie says, not looking at him. “I’m not a Velma.”

Richie gets this thoughtful little frown. “I could probably get her to join us.”

“I’d rather die,” Eddie says.

“Fine,” Richie says, “just an autograph then.”

“ _Richie_ ,” Eddie starts, but he’s already on his way down the carpet.

“OhmyGod,” Eddie says, as he watches Richie say his hellos and point to them.

She turns, smiles and waves, and Eddie looks like he wants to either faint or flip the bird at Richie, but he gives a stiff, jerky wave back instead.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie whispers, “he’s asking her to autograph the tissue from his pocket it better not be used you _gremlin_ oh my _God I can’t believe she’s actually doing it_.”

“You’re welcome,” Richie says as he comes back, handing Eddie the tissue.

“I hate you,” Eddie says, staring down at the paper. “Thanks.”

Bill, feeling rather shown up, turns to Stan. “You want an autograph?”

Stan snorts. “I’m good, thank you.”

“You sure? We got some the full range of C-list celebrities here. I can’t interest you in a Nestor Carbonell? A Ken Marino?”

“Celebrities aren’t really my thing.”

“That’s not quite true, is it?” Richie asks. “I mean, you made that list when we got drunk, a couple years back. Anderson Cooper was at the top, obviously. But who was the 2nd, again? I think it was like, an au-”

“They’re opening the theatre,” Stan announces loudly, heading inside as guards hold the doors open.

Bill almost has to run to catch up with him, by which time he realises they’ve lost Richie and Eddie in the crowd.

 _Oh well_. He doesn’t mind a bit of alone time. _Especially if-but it’s dumb to pin your hopes on a drunken celebrity crush list. Obviously._

Not that it stops him from doing just that.

“Hey,” Stan says, once they’re sitting. “Is now a good time to mention that I…don’t really watch horror?”

Bill stares at his fingers drumming on the armrest. “…Are you _scared_? You know you literally drew these scenes, right?”

“I also read your books! It’s a little different when I’m not the one setting the pace.”

Bill tries not to laugh. “Ok. I-do you want to leave?”

“No! We have to see-”

“Our baby?” Bill suggests, smile breaking through.

“Still not calling it that,” Stan says. “But yes. Just. Don’t get offended if I’m covering my eyes for…the majority of the film.”

“Pretty sure that’s the biggest compliment a horror movie can receive, Stan.”

Stan doesn’t cover his eyes. It’s like he thinks it’s his duty to watch. Bill is about to lean over and tell him that he really doesn’t have to, when blood spatters the screen, and Stan’s hand clamps tightly around his wrist.

He’s very grateful that Stan keeps his nails cut short, because his fingers are really digging in.

Not that he’s complaining.

The scene ends, and Stan’s grip loosens. But his hand still rests lightly on Bill’s arm.

He looks over at Stan, who is studiously not looking at him, and a warm, hopeful feeling slipstreams into his blood.

He only realises the movie’s ended when Stan’s fingers drift away, flying past the upright hairs on his arm on the way.

Stan turns to him. “That was incredibly stressful. So, well done?”

“I feel like I need to remind you that I’m not actually the director.”

“Oh, I forgot. You barely had any input. All the crew talked about was how easy-going and hands-off you were.”

“Funny. That’s exactly how I’d describe _you_.”

Stan’s smile has something echoing behind it. “It’s weird that this works.”

Bill has no idea if _this_ means friendship, or-

“You’d think 2 control freaks in the same space would be like...irresistible force, immovable object. Bad idea.”

“Maybe we round the edges off each other,” Bill says. “I mean, you moved me on the ending.”

“Oh no,” Stan says, “you’re not the immovable object.”

It takes Bill a good minute to realise he’s being flirted with. Via a physics pun, which, somehow, does nothing to alleviate his attraction to Stan. And by then, they’re all being shuffled out back onto the red carpet.

“Uh,” Bill tries desperately to make up for his total lack of response. “Do you feel like walking? Instead of the taxi?”

“Sure,” says Stan. “But we should probably let Richie and Eddie know we’re going.”

They spend a few minutes waiting by the theatre for a Richie and Eddie who never show up.

Stan rolls his eyes. “They probably left already.” He looks at the main entrance, coated in crowds of people. “…Should we try the back way?”

Bill nods, and they head around the side of the building. Stopping when they see two figures leaning against the wall. And each other.

Eddie spots them first, and rapidly shoves Richie off of him.

“Hey guys,” says a slightly dazed Richie, smiling at the both of them.

“Great movie, Bill.” Eddie interjects, not really looking at anyone.

Richie snorts and turns back to him. “What was your favourite scene, Eds?”

Eddie scowls.

“...Seriously?” Stan asks, his face a lot less annoyed than his tone. “You can wait for fucking years, but not for an hour and a half runtime?”

Richie beams at him, hair thoroughly ruffled. “Your congratulations are noted.”

“He’s probably never going to wear a suit again,” Eddie says. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Understandable,” Bill says immediately. He coughs when 3 pairs of eyes turn to him, and says, “We were just heading out. You guys are…”

“Staying,” Eddie says.

“Don’t get stuck here when it closes,” Stan says, heading off with Bill in tow.

“That’s only happened twice,” Richie yells back.

It’s a quiet walk back to Stan’s apartment. The air feels laden with _something_ , and Bill’s pretty sure that if he opens his mouth, he might never stop stuttering. And Stan’s not really one for one-sided conversations. No matter how much Bill tries to encourage his tangents about birds or books or drawing, he’ll bite his lip after a minute or so, cheeks rouging.

Still, the time passes quickly, and Bill finds himself resenting how soon they reach the steps to Stan’s apartment. He’s in the middle of wondering what kind of move he should make, exactly, when Stan’s hand clutches around his forearm, and he has a moment of happy panic where he thinks Stan’s about to move for him.

But then Stan’s hand moves to point to a tree opposite them, and he says, “Vermillion Flycatcher. They’re pretty rare around here.”

Bill may let out a slightly hysterical laugh. The bird definitely flies away with a sense of urgency.

“Fuck, sorry. I guess they’re extremely rare, now?”

Stan smiles. “It’s ok. I kind of like watching them go. Sometimes it’s nice to realise you don't have as much control as you think you do."

“I wish you’d told me that when I started working on this movie.”

Stan grins and shrugs. “I think you got the hang of letting go.”

“Or _maybe_ ,” Bill suggests. “I just got distracted. By a man who dresses like he’s part of the Famous Five.”

“Oh, a _distraction_ ,” Stan says, still smiling. Taking a step forward. “Maybe I should get one of those.”

“I’d recommend it,” Bill says, still not kissing Stan, for some reason, _why aren’t you kissing Stan?_

“Oh look,” Stan says, nudging his head towards the tree. “A Summer Tanager.”

Bill turns to glance, very little idea of what he’s looking for, when he feels Stan’s mouth brush against his.

 _I’m a fucking idiot_ , is his first thought. _Holy shit_ , is his second.

It’s exactly the kind of kiss he’d expect from Stan, if he’d expected a kiss at all. Proper. Polite but firm. A little reserved, in a way that makes Bill want to find the thread that makes him unravel, and pull and pull and pull.

It’s still enough to make his chest hum. Stan’s planted his hand there, inching up towards his shoulder, and Bill wonders if he can feel it.

He can sense Stan starting to pull back, so he moves a hand to his cheek and pulls him in again. He doesn’t push for more. But he makes it last, this time.


	11. Chapter 11

“I knew you earnt more than me, but _Jesus_ your place is nice,” Stan says. He’s on the twentieth minute of his self-tour of Bill’s apartment, now standing in awe in the kitchen. “Look at this. A marble splashback.”

Bill frowns. “I’m getting the feeling splashback means something different in the horror and design worlds.”

He can’t see Stan from the couch, but he thinks he’s being glared at. He hears muttering and manages to pick out “dating a heathen,” and “can’t even appreciate a splashback,” before his phone lights up with an email and he’s a little distracted by the subject line.

He reads the email three times before he realises Stan’s perched on the couch next to him.

“Uh.” He tries to explain, because Stan is looking increasingly concerned. “I’ve got a movie offer. For the book I haven’t even finished yet.”

Stan grins, tugging on his jaw to press a kiss to his stubbly cheek. He pulls back thoughtfully. “I’m so glad that you being impossible to work with hasn’t impacted job offers. I’m pretty sure that if you weren’t a white guy, you would’ve been brained by a clapperboard at this point.”

Bill pretends to type, reading out loud, “Thank you for the offer. I could never have gotten here without my boyfriend’s unconditional support-”

“I said I was _glad_ you hadn’t been brained by a clapperboard. That’s supportive.”

Bill huffs a laugh, tossing his phone to the coffee table so he can sit facing Stan, smoothing down his checkered collar.

“I do owe you,” he says. “The night of the premiere, after I went home, I wrote for three hours. Pretty sure that every time we kiss, my writer’s block disappears.”

“Just like the Cascada song,” Stan says dryly, but he takes the bait, pressing a kiss to the edge of his mouth. “You know, that sentiment would be a lot more romantic if you didn’t write horror.”

“…Does that mean you don’t want me to name the roc after you?”

“Shut up,” Stan says. “You _know_ I do.”

“Stan the man-eating avian lives to fight another day.”

“As long as you never say that name in front of Richie.”

“Hey,” Bill says. “So, I know that when we were working together you had to toe the company line. But now you can admit it. You preferred my ending to theirs, right?”

He’s hit by a cushion.

He grins, feeling like his heart is gliding somewhere above his body. “Is that a yes? You’re saying I should push for _more_ creative control on this one-”

Several more cushions hit him in quick succession.

 _Cushion burial_ , Bill decides, _is an ending he’s perfectly fine with._


End file.
